Blown Glass
by snarkyauthor
Summary: After 6,000 years of dancing around each other's shadows, Aziraphale and Crowley realize the apocalypse has failed, and that they have all the time in the world. The world slows down for a moment, then speeds up again, carrying them along with the tide. Two weeks later, Aziraphale is recalled to Heaven and Crowley is left alone, powerless to help against Heaven's mandate.
1. Chapter 1

_Love is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep-burning and unquenchable._

_-Bruce Lee_

: : :

You know that feeling when you meet someone, and they reach into your chest and touch a fragile, intricate, blown-glass part of you that no one has ever even _seen_? Their fingers skim it, and they're _very_ careful and you're afraid they'll break it but then they just smile and the fear doesn't _matter_ anymore? And so you can't help but let them curl their fingers around it because they're so wonderful and careful and it feels so _safe _and like everything is all right, but –

Then they're torn away from you, so suddenly, and their hand is _ripped_ out of you before they can let go, and so they take _that_ part of you with them. And you're left just gasping in pain, because you may have been hurt before, but it's _never _hurt _this_ much. And you know it's not their fault they were torn away, but it still _hurts__**.**_

So the waters rush into that hole, and you slowly close up the outside, keeping them in because_ something_ in there is better than nothing, especially after _that_ part of you is gone. And those waters will never replace it, but if that person got torn away, and if they'll never be able to come back… it'll be OK. 'cause hopefully they still have that part of you, even if you don't, anymore. And it'll get better with time, it really will. Because that water-filled part of you, inside, will always ache with loss, but maybe… _maybe _someday that person will return, and it'll all be all right, again.

That was how Crowley felt, the day Aziraphale was recalled to Heaven.

: : :

It wasn't even right after the failed apocalypse. It took _two weeks_ for it to happen.

(The _best_ sanctified two weeks of Crowley's blessed _life,_ as it were.)

: : :

It had been a normal Saturday. In the past two weeks, things had gone _fast. _It seemed like now Aziraphale could really see Crowley as a person, now—not that he hadn't been close, before, but _now _it was so _obvious._ Crowley would make jokes, the same taunts and teases he'd done a thousand times before, but _now_ Aziraphale wouldn't get upset at all, only smile fondly at him—like he knew a secret Crowley didn't. It unsettled him. But he didn't let it show that it bothered him, didn't let on that Aziraphale's new reactions threw him for a loop. (After six-thousand years of hanging around the angel, Crowley'd thought he'd _known_ him, and boy was it weird that Aziraphale'd actually _changed_, especially so _quickly_, after all this time.)

After the apocalypse, as they were standing in front of Aziraphale's ruined bookshop, the angel'd hugged him. Crowley'd frozen, startled at the suddenness of it, but allowed it for the second it took Aziraphale to realize he was uncomfortable. The angel'd drawn back, then, giving him an abashed smile and apologizing. Crowley'd reached a hand out, then, and found himself staring as it grasped Aziraphale's wrist, almost of its own accord. He glanced up, quick, and then away, mumbling something about it being _all right_, 'just don't startle me like that, again, angel'.

Crowley hadn't known what possessed him to say it. Maybe it was the after-effect of the noxious fumes streaming over the Bentley as he'd crossed the barrier into Lower Tadfield, maybe it was just an odd feeling of _fitting_ with Aziraphale, after nine-hundred-seventy peaceful years of just talking _at_ him. Either way, Aziraphale gave him a beam that really should've _hurt _(what with how loving and all it was), and brushed his fingers over Crowley's hand, still on his wrist. Crowley'd hastily let go, at that, snapping his hand back and stuffing it into a pocket. He'd straightened, cleared his throat and headed back for the Jeep. When he'd turned, he saw Aziraphale still standing on the sidewalk, and Crowley'd asked if he wanted to stay the night at his flat. But the angel had only shook his head, gazing sadly back at the charred ruins of the bookshop. Crowley resisted the urge to stay.

He went home, collapsed on his pristine bed, and _slept._

: : :

The next two weeks were tentative, as both the angel and demon felt out their new relationship. It was somewhat jagged around the sides, painful and new and different, but calm and familiar and soothing in the center. It kept them both coming back for more. Every night, Crowley would appear, and they'd spend hours talking in the backroom. (Thank Adam for having restored both the bookshop and Bentley—Crowley hadn't been quite sure if he could've handled _those_ losses in addition to this new loss-but-not-quite… _thing_ that was going on with Aziraphale.)

They talked about this and that, old things and new, and it was like Crowley was seeing a whole 'nother aspect of the angel. There was this strange light in Aziraphale's eyes, sometimes, too—it was quick, but it was still _wicked_, and each and every time Crowley found himself at a loss. It was like he had tunnel vision—his entire world narrowed down to seeing that sly little quirk of Aziraphale's mouth, or a positively _evil_ gleam in those eyes that disappeared instantly, leaving only innocence its wake. Sometimes, he couldn't speak for a moment, afterwards. Sometimes, Crowley could brush it off without betraying any nervousness of his own. One day, however, he simply_ couldn't._

It had been humdrum enough. It'd been a windy day, and Crowley hadn't managed to make it the five feet from the curb to the bookshop's door without his hair becoming a positive _rat's nest._ He'd snarled to himself as he barged in the door, telling Aziraphale that they'd have to do take-away tonight, because there was _no way in H-__**Manchester **_that Crowley was going out into that wind again, and—

And Aziraphale had looked up, blinked at the sight of him, and chuckled. He came around the counter, smiling kindly at the still-ranting demon, and had raised his hands, gently burying them into the demon's mussed hair. Crowley's tirade cut itself short, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses as his (unneeded) breath caught at the angel's proximity. Aziraphale was about six inches away, gaze still fixed on him, blue eyes kind as he said something in a warm, tender tone of voice about something and Crowley—Crowley just—he _just—_

He just had to kiss him. So he did.

What made him squeak (which he would later deny) was the _intensity _with which Aziraphale responded. Some way or another Crowley's arms had gone around the small of the angel's back, and then Aziraphale took a step closer, one hand sliding down from Crowley's hair to cup his cheek as they kissed, and now Crowley _couldn't_ back down. He'd been just about to, actually, all ready to pull away and stutter awkwardly and tell the angel to just _forget it_ before diving back into the storm outside, but…

(Well, Aziraphale was holding him there. Practically against his will! He couldn't _leave._)

After that, things got a bit dicier. There were quite a few harmless, candid jabs of banter as Aziraphale reorganized his (new) material on the bookshelves, and Crowley traipsed along behind him, annoying as best he could. Sometimes those harmless moments evolved into _close_ ones_—_so close, in fact, that pretty soon one of them was pinned up against the spines of those children's books, both breathing fast through kisses, hands tangled up in each other, eyes wide as they came back to themselves and the reality of the situation brought them back to earth. They'd never gone too far, though—just far _enough_ to be mutually startled by the brief loss of coherent thought. But those moments were never awkward, somehow. Left to his own devices, Crowley probably would've _made_ them awkward (inadvertently), but somehow Aziraphale always just pulled him in and kept him from making too much of a fool of himself. (Crowley suspected it had something to do with Aziraphale never _calling _what Crowley did, afterwards, 'foolish', but he firmly shoved that to another part of his mind and didn't think about it.)

Two weeks passed, and Crowley found himself so much at ease that he almost became suspicious of it. There was a breezy sort of happiness blowing around in his chest, making the nonexistent bones sing like wind chimes and he had to school his expression before entering the bookshop so Aziraphale wouldn't get wise. It wasn't normal for him to lose control—he was a respectable demon, thankyouverymuch, and control of his own self and actions had been one of the very few things he could cling to, depend on.

But recently, if Aziraphale said _just_ the _wrong_ thing in _just_ the _right _way—Crowley would find himself grabbing at the angel, smoothing his fingers over the curves of his back, licking up his neck and hissing sultry things in his ear like he just couldn't _help_ himself. Aziraphale was more than a possible outlet for over six-thousand years of skirting human sexuality—he was _Aziraphale. _How had Crowley never seen it, before? How had he never _reacted_ like this, before? It was like the angel flipped a switch in his brain, like an electrical current swept straight through him and _any_ hint Aziraphale gave him that was just on the _wrong side_ of innocent just made Crowley _act._

Because Crowley had _seen_ temptation, before—he was a master at it. But to see such purposeful, _wicked _intent on a face that Crowley'd only ever seen innocence on—oh, _Aziraphale's_ temptation was a _class act._ And Crowley couldn't help himself, couldn't stop himself from just getting _in_ and trying to claw himself _into_ that perfection. It was like an addiction. Mild jabs turned to teasing, turned to Aziraphale saying _something_ innocuous and Crowley adopting a predatory, taunting smirk with a perverted rejoinder and then it would just build from there and _Aziraphale wouldn't stop him. _The angel would _let_ it get out of hand, would let Crowley slide up against him, all grace and sultry whispers and would _gasp_ and _oh_, Aziraphale was _so_ over-sensitive, how could Crowley resist? (Especially when Aziraphale didn't seem too inclined to shove him off?)

It was like every moment with Aziraphale (now, anyway) was a drop of balm on every crack in his being that'd ever been carved by pain.

Perhaps it'd always been that way—or always had the _potential_ to be that way.

How hadn't this happened, before?

(Maybe before, Aziraphale hadn't _known_, and Crowley hadn't _realized—_but what did it matter, anyway? What was important was that they were both alive, and together, and that _nothing_ would ever tear them apart.)

: : :

Crowley had strode into the bookshop two weeks (to the day) after the aborted apocalypse, ready to snag the angel by the tie and drag him out for dinner. Then he saw the note. It was on parchment, and hastily written, and Crowley felt his nonexistent heart stutter to a start within him.

_C.- Recalled home. Will talk soon. Take care. -A._

And Crowley accepted it. Hard as it was for him to have faith, if there was _one_ thing he could believe in, it was Aziraphale.

The first night, he didn't allow himself to panic.

The second night was much worse. Thousands of possibilities swam dizzily in his head, all negative, all horrible—uprooting common sense in everything he'd ever known or thought about. His appetite—a thing usually reserved for lunch or dinner with Aziraphale—was wished away, entirely. Crowley just didn't _care._ He tried sending messages, after a few days of no response. He wasn't even sure they made it through. Still, Crowley tried to fight back the rising terror that Aziraphale was just _gone—_was back in Heaven, being reprimanded or simply told to stay away from Crowley, entirely. Bitter, Crowley could see _just_ how _that_ would play out.

He wouldn't blame Aziraphale for choosing Heaven over him. Hell, if given the choice, _Crowley_ would choose Heaven over him. But it wasn't his choice. It was Aziraphale's, and as the days bled into a week, Crowley felt something in him rupture. It felt like his energy was just streaming out of him from an Aziraphale-shaped hole in his chest. It wasn't too noticeable, at first—wasn't obvious, at all. But the first week of blind panic and utter helplessness did not bode well for his state of mind. Aziraphale was always on his mind. There was nowhere he could go, nothing he could _do_ that didn't remind him of the angel. Sleep was his only escape, and so Crowley quite shamelessly over-indulged in it. But the story was always the same. Just before bed, lying there in the dark, images and half-conversations would fly through his head. Familiar smiles and words that'd comforted him brought only the pain of that loss, now.

The first two nights, he'd cried into his pillow—pride be damned (just like him). After that, though, he'd gotten a better hold on himself, and while he was still panicking, mentally, he managed to keep up appearances. He made small talk with the postman and the old lady downstairs. After that first week passed only in silence (despite his attempted messages to Above), Crowley told himself not to expect anything, and to just keep going on. It got easier, but it never hurt less.

_Aziraphale's forgotten me._

_Heaven's convinced him I'm a horrible influence—which, to be honest, I __**am. **_

_What was I thinking, that I'd get to be happy without consequences?_

_What did we even have?_

_Did it even happen?_

_I can't even remember, anymore._

_What right do I have to him? I'm just a demon. Heaven is his __**home.**_

_What, did I think he'd Fall for me? Is that where this was heading?_

_Well, if Heaven thinks I'm that awful, maybe I __**am.**_

_Aziraphale would be the only one who'd disagree with them, and even he…_

_He said he'd be back soon, didn't he?_

_What, did Heaven stick him back in Bible Camp?_

_Why haven't I heard anything?_

After two weeks of hearing nothing, Crowley was very close to what humans might call 'depressed', or even on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It disgusted him, but he just didn't have the energy to fight it. His thoughts took dark and circuitous turns, always bringing him back to one quiet notion that was apparently becoming fact.

_Aziraphale's abandoned me._

_I'll never hear from him, again._

_I've somehow managed to mess even this up._

_It's all my fault. You're telling them that, aren't you, Aziraphale?_

_Put all the blame on me, and you'll get off scot-free._

_It's OK, angel. It's all my fault._

_You don't have to stick around._

_I know… I know I'm not worth you sacrificing everything you have just for me._

'_s OK, angel. Just leave me here to rot._

_Maybe I'll actually become a 'real' demon, now._

_After all, if that thrice-blessed 'spark of goodness' gets me nothing but pain, what's the use?_

_Might as well give Heaven a strong case against me._

_Not that it would change anything, I know._

_Are you even hearing this, Aziraphale?_

Crowley knew it was horribly dependant of him, to keep waiting like this—keep hoping, keep believing that those two weeks after the apocalypse hadn't just been in his head. But without Aziraphale around, it was hard to put a perspective to _anything._ Without the angel's steadying presence, it was like his mind was scattered in different directions, unable to focus or even sum up the effort needed to _find out what had happened._

But, at this point, Crowley didn't think he'd ever know.

There had just been Aziraphale—and then there _hadn't._

Maybe it was better to just cut his losses, instead of trying to fight for an angel who'd obviously given up on ever contacting him again, long ago.

That didn't make it hurt less.

Because Aziraphale wouldn't've left him hanging for two weeks, would he?

…Well.

Not unless the Aziraphale Crowley remembered didn't exist, anymore.

(And _oh_, had Crowley thought he'd been in pain, before? Just the _thought_ that Aziraphale didn't want anything to do with him, anymore, just ripped the bandages off those cracks, making them fester anew with raw anguish for what they had _had_, and for what he had _lost_.)

: : :

_be of love(a little)_

_More careful_

_Than of everything_

_guard her perhaps only_

_A trifle less_

_(merely beyond how very)_

_closely than_

_Nothing,remember love by frequent_

_anguish(imagine_

_Her least never with most _

_memory)give entirely each_

_Forever its freedom_

_(Dare until a flower,_

_understanding sizelessly sunlight_

_Open what thousandth why and_

_discover laughing)_

_-ee cummings_


	2. Chapter 2

_Love cannot live where there is no trust._

_-Edith Hamilton_

: : :

Seventeen days in, Crowley woke up and the world didn't hurt. He sat up in bed, and found himself having an urge to _tempt._ He hadn't had such an urge in over two weeks, too consumed by Aziraphale's absence (and the horrible ruminations thereon) to focus on anything else. He stared at himself in the full-length mirror on the wall and stood, suddenly dressed in a sharp suit. The ache of loss was still in the back of his head, but he could stuff it away, now. It wasn't as sharp, as debillitating.

He went out and caused three minor car accidents (two out of three due partially to mobile phones, the third being the other driver's fault, entirely, but Crowley would still take credit where he could get it), glued a few antique coins to the sidewalk and smoked in a non-smoking restaurant (where no one dared ask him to leave). He returned to his apartment feeling satisfied in a way he hadn't in a very long time, and this prompted Crowley (once there) to shed his black jacket at the door, toe off his shoes and have a glass of very good, old brandy in only his silky lustrously-yellow button-up shirt (first two buttons undone, of course), loosened black tie and black slacks. He kicked his black stocking (_un_holy, thankyouverymuch) feet up on the coffee table, reclining on his white leather couch with the square cushions (very chic), holding the matching square scotch-sized glass in a hand as he stared at his plants, musing. (They were very terrified at the sudden intense attention—even though Crowley was more lost in thought, than anything else—and immediately straightened and bloomed, each plant according to its talents.)

Crowley sipped at his brandy and hummed quietly to himself, unusually pensive.

Well, Aziraphale was gone. He winced a little, taking another sip. Yes. That was undoubtable. Undoable, too. It was highly unlikely the people Upstairs would let the angel come back anytime soon, if ever. Crowley considered this with a nod—yes, that seemed probable. If Aziraphale had… truly _meant_ what he'd said, sometime during those two weeks, surely he would've made every effort to at least _contact_ Crowley.

The demon felt a small surge of anger, at this. Or, once back _Up There_, perhaps Aziraphale realized how shoddy it was down here, in comparison? Crowley snorted to himself. All those centuries of Aziraphale claiming Above's bureaucracy was as bad as Below's—Crowley shook his head. The angel just hadn't been home enough. Crowley felt a quiet, angry sneer curl up his lip. Yeah. That'd be how it went. Aziraphale would get called up, reprimanded for fraternizing with the enemy, be confronted with innumerable slips of paperwork to fill out, all the while bathing in the glory of the Host. Crowley hissed to himself, fingers tightening on his glass. Some tiny part of him prodded at his anger, saying he wasn't giving Aziraphale enough credit. He impatiently batted it away. Crowley was a demon for a reason—he didn't _do_ faith. He didn't_ trust_. And sure, after almost six-thousand years, Crowley'd thought he'd known Aziraphale. But things could always change. Hell, Crowley'd _seen_ all of human history. He knew about change, and he knew some things always stayed the same.

Like angels.

Crowley sighed, slouching back into his couch, dropping his gaze to the amber brandy in his glass, swirling it and staring idly at the swishing liquid. Something dark and ancient prodded at his mind.

**_It was only two weeks, after all. _**

**_ Did you really expect it would last?_**

**_ How dependant are you willing to be, for him, Crowley?_**

He narrowed his eyes. It was true. Two weeks to (essentially) immortal beings was nothing. Who's to say it'd been nothing to _Aziraphale_? Who's to say it had actually meant anything at all? It could've easily just been the angel trying to lure him into 'goodness', through being superficially wicked—just wicked _enough_ to catch Crowley's interest without committing any sin.

What if Aziraphale had just been playing with him, the entire time, waiting for a chance to call up on Heaven and give his report on subverting a demon—making a demon _love._ Something in Crowley recoiled as he admitted that to himself and he felt sick, but the queasy feeling quickly turned to rage in his stomach. That tiny blessed part of him said that Aziraphale would _never_ do that, Crowley only had to wait and Aziraphale would—

**_But what if he doesn't?_**

**_ What's the point in ruining yourself over what might have been?_**

**_ He's not here, so whatever happened in those two weeks doesn't even exist, right now._**

And, again, that was _true. _Why should Crowley be the one to suffer, here? Why should _he_ be upset that he hadn't heard anything? It was Heaven's affair, and Aziraphale was their agent. It was none of his business. Why had Crowley let himself fall so far (pun not intended)—it had _nothing_ to do with him. He smiled, wanly. Clearly, otherwise Heaven would've smote him by now or Aziraphale would've returned. Crowley chuckled to himself, feeling something hard lodge itself in his chest. Something sharp and spiky, like one of those old medieval maces.

He'd never been one to give into those demonic urges—even back in Eden, he'd been the only demon 'good' enough to hold a conversation with an angel (even though that angel had been Aziraphale, still, back then it had been a _big deal_). After Falling, he'd made the choice not to go in on all that torture crap, and had avoided most of it on Earth, as well. (Read: see his reaction to the Spanish Inquisition.) Crowley'd never allowed himself to get discouraged, when Aziraphale said it was 'down to his nature' that he had to do evil. He could've bitten Eve—he _didn't._ Crowley could've done a lot of things, over the millennia, that he _hadn't._

Maybe it had been Aziraphale. Maybe the angel _had _been influencing him. Crowley shook his head. No, that was only part of it. Aziraphale had been someone he could talk to as an equal, as someone who understood his lot in life (well, more than the humans, anyway, and demons didn't really like to talk). Crowley had to admit to himself that he _hadn't_ let himself get carried away. He liked humans. He had nothing against them, it was just his job. That had been exactly how he'd lived his life, and likely why everyone was still around, in the first place.

Crowley smiled snakily to himself. Oh, was _that_ it? If he tried harder, would that mean he could influence the end of the world? He almost laughed aloud at the thought, but the notion persisted, niggling at the back of his brain. What _if_ he hadn't brought up the idea to stop the apocalypse, eleven years ago? What if he hadn't been able to convince Aziraphale that it was a bad idea—barring all that 'thwarting wiles' nonsense (_that'd_ just been to get the angel to go along with it). What then? What would've happened, if Crowley hadn't made the _choice_ to stop the end of the world? It certainly hadn't been the demonic thing to do.

Also, without Aziraphale here, that meant there was a severe imbalance in the world. Crowley could tempt, but there would be no angelic parry, no shield of righteousness to limit his victims. His smile spread, growing a bit sharp around the edges. Forget Aziraphale, then. Perhaps he'd better have some fun, like he'd never had, before. Maybe _that_ would get Heaven to do something, spur them to action. But really, Crowley wasn't motivated by all that. He and Aziraphale had saved the world together (nevermind Adam). If Aziraphale couldn't be arsed to stay at his station—Heavenly mandate or no—why _shouldn't_ Crowley take advantage?

_Yeah_, he thought to himself, angrily, _If Aziraphale's gone what do I have to lose? No one here knows me, they're all just humans, maybe it'd really be fun to see **just** how well people do without an angel to balance the scales. _He hissed to himself, fingers tightening on the glass, making it creak. Crowley cast an infernal grin at his plants, hard and hurt and angry. What did it matter, anymore? The only reason they'd saved the world was because Aziraphale had managed to persuade Metatron and Beelzebub otherwise. Crowley'd barely done anything at the end, he'd only instigated the beginning, eleven years ago. If Aziraphale wasn't here, what was the world really _worth_, to him_? _An eternity without an Adversary to duel? (Forget what had happened in the two weeks after the apocalypse—to Crowley, now, that time was as good as _dead_, as good as _nonexistent_, because there was no point in getting his hopes up. If Aziraphale'd wanted to return, he would have. Crowley stubbornly wouldn't allow his thoughts to consider otherwise.)

Crowley snarled to himself, abruptly hurling his unfinished glass at the mantle, where it shattered. Shards of glass went everywhere, the brandy leaving a dripping stain until Crowley glared at it and the damage was gone. The houseplants shivered in fear as the demon stood, hands grasping each other behind his back as he strode away. He just ended up pacing in the bedroom, the bed's white sheets messy and unmade (and 100% Egyptian Cotton). Crowley turned on his heel smartly, continuing to pace. An idea was crawling into his mind, sodden and dripping with darkness.

_What's it matter, anymore? Aziraphale's gone. Why should I keep **trying** if there's no one to thwart me?_

**_Exactly. Without his influence mucking up your aura, you can finally act freely._**

_The end of the world's a bit much, though. _Crowley realized, coming back to reason, a little.

**_Granted, but no one ever said you had to be nice, did they? _**Crowley paused, staring at the foot of his bed.

_That's true. _The dark voice from the back of his mind hissed in glee.

**_Ssssee? You have ssso much potential, Crowley. Don't let it go to wasssste!_** Crowley grinned to himself, a little, allowing a push of confidence as he resumed pacing.

_Yeah. Yeah! I **am** better than what I've been. _

_Aziraphale's been distracting me. _

_I could do ssso much more…_

Crowley snickered, eyes casting out towards the window. He grinned, selfish and eager.

No more Mr. Nice Demon. Heaven wanted Aziraphale out of the way? _Fine. _Crowley'd enjoy the unhindered temptations and damnings that would occur in the meantime. Oh _yes he would. _It was high-time he started acting like a real demon—no angelic influence allowed.

: : :

If he was going to be alone forever, anyway, at least he'd still have his _work_ to be proud of.

The prospect of his life without Aziraphale was so much easier to swallow if he spent it making others _miserable_, after all.

But Crowley didn't dare admit that last part to himself. It was buried along with that tiny blessed spark which was being firmly smothered beneath an overabundance of sudden, rather-demonic rage at being left behind, at being abandoned, at being _ripped away_ from a promise of soft happiness that he'd never encountered, before. If Heaven didn't want Aziraphale around him, that was _fine. _Crowley didn't need Aziraphale to do his job, to make humans despair—Hell, to _live. _In fact, he'd do it _better than ever before_, just to _show_ Heaven what a horrible, nasty demon he was. Playing under the radar didn't matter, anymore, and besides—he might even get a commendation and a better standing in Hell if he did a _really_ wicked job.

(Crowley ignored a small sense that he'd decided to do this because a spike in demonic activity might make Heaven—provided Aziraphale hadn't changed as much as Crowley feared—send the angel back. Purely to 'balance the scales', of course. There could be no other logical reason than that.)

: : :

Three weeks in, Crowley was starting to wonder if this was how a heart died. Oh, he'd never had one to begin with, to be sure—but he had a sneaking suspicion that he'd acquired one, somewhere along the line.

: : :

Ten weeks. Seventy days, and Crowley realized vaguely that it'd been a rather long time since he'd thought of Aziraphale. Oh, he'd had his moments – tears suddenly dripping down his face before he could stop them at the oddest times, or going days without allowing himself to register any thought lest it be of the angel. Of this, Crowley's actions had ended up in a mind-numbing, repeating circle, but Crowley didn't care. This was existence. This was his _work _– his _job._

: : :

Twenty years.

Crowley no longer wore snappy black suits. (What was the point, without someone who was his opposite?) No, now Crowley tended towards greys and whites, checkered patterns, hoodies, and skinny jeans. He found posing as a hipster had the amusing affect of increasing the general hostility in his vicinity. Now and then he would even dabble in steampunk. Crowley allowed himself to be carried along the tide of human existence, tarnishing souls, reporting Deeds of the Day at the usual monthly meetup with Hastur (and Ligur, whom Adam had apparently restored).

Crowley had increased the evil output of the vicinity of London by forty percent. He earned a commendation. Hastur gruffly congratulated him. Ligur gave him the Evil Eye (he'd never really got over that whole bit with the holy water, back in '90). Crowley was a demon. He did demonic things. He encouraged 'discontent among the brethren'. He kept up with the new gadgets, had an iPhone but never used it, except for the Apps. His Bentley had an audio jack instead of a cassette player, the cassettes tossed on the floor of the backseat. His passenger seat was littered with glossy, flashy magazines and various charger cords.

He stayed away from his flat for weeks on end. (All the plants had died long ago, anyway.)

In sum, Crowley made himself forget what it was like to live. He didn't have any friends, didn't make any new ones. The old lady in the flat below died, and her children came and moved out her things. A relatively young, childless couple moved in. They were in their thirties, both concerned with getting high-end degrees. Crowley sowed tension, tempted the wife to cheat and the husband to abuse their finances, and soon enough they were yelling at each other. Five months later they divorced. Eight years of a marriage destroyed by a demon in five months. (It would've been shorter, but Crowley had been distracted by that market crash in America.)

Crowley miracled himself a gun. Sometimes, when he was drunk – with a bottle of wine as his co-pilot – he would drive around London shooting at statues of angels. The bullets ricocheted but never hit anyone. (The angels bled bright blue from where they made contact.)

Crowley forgot. (If he'd done anything else, it would've destroyed him.)

While channel-surfing, he caught sight of a sappy romance movie. It was just another night, but he ended up watching it. The girl's mother didn't want her dating another girl – who, despite being much older, clearly loved the first girl with all her heart – and forbade the first girl from contacting the second girl. There were many scenes of the second girl looking sad, but the main development was between the first girl and her mother. Eventually she won her mother over and the movie ended with the cliché of 'love conquers all'. The ending scene was the two girls holding each other tight, smiling soppily and just looking generally happy to be back together.

Crowley had started crying about when it became apparent there would be a happy ending. It wasn't even sobs, at first – just tears. His vision blurred, and not ten seconds later big, fat, disgusting tears were rolling down his cheeks, his nose growing congested.

He couldn't stop crying for a half-hour. Every attempt to stop only set it off anew.

His chest hurt. His hands hurt – there was an ache pulsing from them and up and down his arms. Like the pain was a _physical_ poison, an acid eating away at the veins beneath the skin. He couldn't see, couldn't smell, couldn't trust what he felt (since it was obvious there was no acid in his veins, much as his body tried to convince him otherwise). He kept crying, sniffling, and generally looking a great mess until apparently his corporation had had enough, and allowed him to calm down.

Crowley never told anyone about these episodes. That one night hadn't been the first time.

Time soldiered on.

To Crowley, it seemed at once too fast and too long.

Twenty years was too long, wasn't it? That was a long time. Why didn't it feel like it?

Twenty years shouldn't go by so fast. Every now and then Crowley came to this conclusion. Human time had always dragged by, for Crowley. He observed too much, remembered too much. But the past two decades just felt like a blob of time arbitrarily labeled 'twenty years'. It could've been two years, for all Crowley knew (except that fashion had drastically changed, when Crowley bothered to pay attention).

He tried to remember what it was like. It felt like he'd lost something.

He still recalled Aziraphale, yes. But any emotion associated with the angel had been burned out of him. Crowley had nothing left. So he just kept going. Kept driving, kept tempting, kept sinning, kept damning. He kept going, because that was all he _could_ do. All he knew how to do. He couldn't process the world as he had, before – too much had changed. So Crowley simply shut out the emotional parts he couldn't deal with, anymore (because of the pain they evoked), and quietly smothered them under a veil of mediocrity. He wasn't special. Why had he ever thought he was? Crowley was just another demon. Another cog in the wheel. And one day he would be sent back to Hell by some aspiring exorcist, or possibly be smote by an avenging angel. Either way, it didn't matter.

But Crowley wouldn't _stop._

The only thing he still really knew how to do was drive.

To drive, you always have to keep moving.

So he did.

He kept going.

And Crowley'd go straight over the metaphorical cliff, when it came – full-tilt, never even trying to stop.

What was the point, if it was all the same?

: : :

_The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost._

_ -Unknown_


End file.
